


Rhetoric & Treason

by fictorium



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M, Female Protagonist, Future Fic, Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-03 22:46:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictorium/pseuds/fictorium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Description to follow. Future fic with an Andrea Wyatt presidency.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. May 7th, 2020

Andy shakes the fiftieth (or sixtieth) hand and sneaks a glance at the huge clock hanging over the door. Hopefully they’ll be free of this latest grip ‘n’ grin by three, because if she doesn’t get a coffee soon there’s a real risk of falling asleep standing up.

 

“It’s so kind of you,” the sharp-looking woman says as Andy releases her hand. “To take the time to come and visit us, especially when you’ve been having such a tough year.”

 

Though she’s practiced the grateful widow face a million times already, Andy still has to think for a split-second before lowering her eyes and affecting the half-smile that people seem to expect in these moments. She’s just glad she got her hand back before the patting could begin--somehow that’s the most uncomfortable part of this whole unofficial ritual. 

 

It doesn’t seem to matter that she’s been working a full schedule for six months already, or that she’s getting used to sleeping alone again (and guiltily preferring it, for the few hours she grabs each night). People have been waiting, it seems, to express their sympathy, and Andy is in no place to deny them.

 

“It’s so kind of you to have me here. You’re all doing such valuable work for the local community,” Andy replies, nudging them back on topic. These after-school clubs in the District are about to be piloted nationwide, and her office is aiming to be at the forefront of that. Who better to understand the plight of working parents? 

 

“Madam Vice President?” The call comes from the throng, but she recognizes Todd’s voice in an instant. He’s been her constant companion for years now, informed and unflappable but Andy’s made it something of a mission to make him blush at least once a week. This nice boy from her Congressional office has made each step up the ladder at her side, and it’s gratifying to see the man he’s become.

 

“Please excuse me,” Andy says to the waiting group, trying not to appear grateful at the interruption.

 

“I’m sorry,” Todd says as he pulls her away from the assembled volunteers and children. “Madam President, I just spoke to Teddy at the White House.”

 

“What am I in trouble for now?”

 

“It’s not that...” Todd trails off, looking around the room in that slightly frantic way he has.

 

“Todd, you’re starting to worry me. Are the kids okay?”

 

And in that moment, something shifts. 

 

Andy will say later that it felt significant--that the hum in the air changed key, that the air somehow tasted different--but right now it’s just that pit of the stomach lurch at a half-glanced expression on one of her Secret Service agents. These guys (no women on today’s shift, but Andy has insisted on it, generally) can react stone-faced to thrown objects, shrieking people charging them down, and noises mistaken for gunshots, but just as she turns Andy catches Casper pressing his fingers to his earpiece with an unmistakably shocked expression.

 

She grabs Todd by the sleeve before he can take his second step (the world feels like it should be in slow motion right now, but sheer adrenalin has her reacting fast enough).

 

“Wait,” she says, nodding towards the agents securing the room, as one by one they allow some kind of reaction to flicker. It’s like watching dominoes fall, Andy thinks, already trying to predict the next step. She’s braced and ready when the nearest agent--Chris--moves in to grab her.

 

“Madam Vice-President,” he says, and it takes the lightest touch to have them both in motion. “We need to move you to a secure location.”

 

The rest of the agents swarm around Chris, falling into formation like some kind of incredibly scary marching band. Although Andy’s moving her legs, she can’t really be sure her feet are touching the floor right now. In the blink of an eye she’s in the back of the limo, but no staff are shoved in after her. Instead Casper is sitting opposite her, listening intently to his earpiece.

 

Before she can question him, the heavy door slams shut and the telltale three thumps land on the roof. The engine guns, and she reaches for the phone in frustration. They don’t need more bad press: cutting events short for another Secret Service drill.

 

“Sorry, ma’am. No calls right now until we confirm that this line is still secure.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Andy says ,with an eye roll. “I’ll tell your bosses that you were very strict, but I need to manage the press from running out like that. I need to speak to Todd--”

 

“No ma’am,” Casper says firmly, actually reaching out and snatching the handset away. “It’ll just be a few minutes before we confirm the lines are safe to use.”

 

“Oh for God’s sake,” Andy huffs, reaching for her cellphone, but Casper reacts quicker than she does, snatching that away too.

 

“Again, I’m sorry, ma’am. It really shouldn’t take too long,” Casper blurts, showing his first signs of discomfort since the car started moving. It might be related to the death glare that Andy is very aware of firing in his direction right now.

 

“So,” she says, relenting after a long minute. “Which exercise are we running through today? Has North Korea nuked Portland? Or are terrorists swarming over Mount Rushmore?”

 

Casper hesitates before answering, muttering ‘confirmed’ into his sleeve and listening intently again.

 

“Ma’am,” he says, and in that moment Andy notices how young he actually is. He can’t be that much older than Huck and Molly, and here he is putting his life on the line daily just to ferry her around to the appointments foisted off onto the Veep’s office. Remarkable, really. Casper clears his throat, and rubs his forehead for just a moment.

 

“Ma’am,” he begins again. “We now have confirmation that Marine One has crashed, in a field just outside of Smithfield, Virginia.”

 

“Crashed? You mean like a crash landing? Like an emergency landing?” Andy feels herself trying to spin the words even as the reaction to them creeps up on her. She can’t let it hit her, not yet.

 

“Ma’am, as I understand it the helicopter was not able to land safely. The FBI have been called to the scene and my fellow agents from the decoy choppers are attempting to check the wreckage now. I’ve been instructed to deliver you safely to a secure bunker.”

 

“Wait, what?” Andy shakes her head, as though that will somehow stop the ringing in her ears. 

 

“Ma’am, I think it would be better if you spoke to the National Security Adviser. Or perhaps--”

 

For a moment, Andy really thinks she’s going to be sick. It’s that vertigo, that sudden internal flailing for control that she remembers all too well from two months of morning sickness and a few too many hangovers. Just in time, she tamps the urge down, but she clamps her hand over her mouth for a minute just in case.

 

“Where are they taking the President?” She asks, hoping that details will give her something to cling to as the car whizzes down another street at breakneck speed. “I can’t think where the nearest hospital is to there, and I should know...”

 

Her cell phone rings then, and Andy grabs for it; Casper offers no resistance, either because they’re cleared or he just wants to stop talking to her. They’ve probably only exchanged about ten words in the past two years, and Andy finds herself eager to speak to someone with answers.

 

“Madam Vice President,” says a familiar voice. 

 

“Teddy, thank God,” Andy says with a genuine sigh of relief. “I’m terrifying my agents here--how is the President?”

 

“Uh, well,” Teddy hesitates, sounding incredibly far away. “I’m in the Situation Room right now.”

 

“I assumed you would be; I know you weren’t on this trip,” Andy points out, trying to move it along. The car is slowing down a little now, but the heavily tinted windows make it hard to tell exactly where they are, other than not the White House (or the Observatory, for that matter). “Listen, don’t feel like you have to sugarcoat it for me. If he’s badly hurt and can’t invoke the 25th while they treat him, there’s always Section 4. If you get the Cabinet together--”

 

“Andy!” Teddy says, and that slip chills her right down to the marrow. “The Cabinet are assembling now. Everyone is local except for Bill--I mean the Secretary of State--he’s in Malaysia, but heading for the plane as we speak. The 25th is already in play.”

 

“You mean...” Andy trails off, even though her neurons are firing and making the connection, she doesn’t dare lend voice to thought, not like this. 

 

“I mean, as soon as we can get the Chief Justice in the same room as you, your title is going to change.”

 

“But Sam...” Andy can’t conceive of saying the rest of the sentence, and so it hangs there in the silence between her and the President’s Chief of Staff.

 

“Ma’am, President Seaborn was pronounced dead on the scene by medics. We’ll confirm details about his remains and the investigation into the crash in due course. Right now, you have other things to deal with.”

 

The car rolls to a halt in what looks like the middle of an abandoned military base, and Andy feels a brief moment of panic as the Secret Service agent outside does whatever it is they do to get the heavy door swinging open. Outside though, the two SUVs that comprise her security detail are already parked and waiting, and so she ends the call without another word.

 

Stepping out into the blinding May sunshine, she finds two agents guiding her forward in an instant. Perhaps she should be worrying about a coup, but these faces are familiar and she’s allowed to do (most of) the walking herself this time.

 

Keypads and long corridors greet her as she keeps marching forward, unsure of who’s following or why. Eventually they descend stairs into what looks like a smaller-scale replica of the White House Situation Room. There are two Army Generals and the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court already taking up three of the ten seats.

 

Justice Baker Lang is the first to stand, and Andy wonders if this is really the first time she’s seen her since the Inauguration; it just might be. The Generals follow suit, their salutes as crisp and polished as their uniforms, but the mildly shocked expressions mirroring everyone else’s.

 

“Well,” Andy says, summoning up her game face with more hope than conviction. “It looks like we walked right into the history books just by getting up this morning.”

 

“Are you ready, Madam Vice President?” The Chief Justice asks the question gently, careful not to jolt the fragile atmosphere too much. Staff are piling in through the door now, and there are more footsteps on the stairs behind her. Andy can see a camera or two being readied as she steps around the table to take her new place at the head of it. 

 

“I believe that the phrase I’m looking for here,” Andy says, pausing for some last minute interruption that this has all been a cruel joke. “Is ‘as I’ll ever be’”.

 

There’s a nervous laugh or two in the crowd, but all eyes are firmly on Andy as Justice Baker Lang pulls a copy of the Constitution from her briefcase. There’ll be time for speeches and condolences and questions in a few minutes, and for a long time to come. But right now, Andy has one of her two official jobs to do, and she can’t let anything detract from that.

 

“In that case,” she says, smiling kindly. “Let’s make some history.”


	2. May 2020

The plumes of smoke on the screen seem innocuous—no more dramatic than the average summer cookout. Wherever this camera is shooting from is a long way back though, and so Toby reserves judgment for now. Unconfirmed reports from anonymous sources--sources on which Toby has long shared an opinion with Abbey Bartlet--have been circulating for an hour. The overlapping questions, half-answers and speculation form a cacophony of non-information that would once have driven Toby out of his mind. Today, older and hopefully at least a little wiser, he’s remembering to breathe evenly and wait for something concrete.

 

His fingers grip tighter around the phone in his hand, and his thumb hovers once again over speed-dial one. He won’t call, he reminds himself, until the news is at least official. At least he knows she isn’t there, with the surprisingly small amount of smoke, somewhere in a field in Virginia. He knows that by holding down the one key he can be talking to her within seconds, and yet he holds off.

 

Meanwhile, on screen, a ‘National Security expert’ who is nobody that Toby has ever seen before, certainly not in connection with the NSA or CIA, is holding forth on terror alerts and the impact on major airports. Nothing like a travel problem on a holiday weekend, he muses silently. It’s almost part of the national celebration.

 

Turning away from the television’s repetition of the same non-existent facts, Toby watches his children as they sit on the sofa adjacent to him. Where they might usually be sprawled out like their limbs were styled on ragdolls, today they’re both hunched up and tense, watching the screen with rapt attention that’s generally reserved for their cellphones.

 

Molly has both legs tucked under her in a kind of yoga pose, hiding the long legs she inherited from her mother quite effectively. She’s wearing one of Huck’s t-shirts, knotted at the waist where it hangs too loose on her. Toby’s long since stopped trying to understand why these two can share so easily one minute and wage bloody war over the last Oreo the next. As Molly frowns in concentration, a replication of genetics that proves everything Darwin was rambling on about, she compulsively braids one section of her hair. Over and over her pale fingers twist the red strands, with the dexterity of a concert pianist, only pausing to shake it out and start all over again.

 

Next to her, closer than they usually sit these days, Huck has one sneaker-clad foot drawn up onto the couch. His chin rests on his knees as his dark eyes flicker back and forth with the constant updating of the yellow ticker, and it almost looks as though he’s hugging his own leg for comfort. 

 

These teenagers Toby’s found himself with are too damn hard to protect, and Toby thinks this despite the armed Secret Service agents standing guard at his apartment door. It was easier, somehow, when they were smaller and the biggest obstacles to overcome were scraped knees or insurmountable homework projects. In those areas, Toby quickly became a black belt. He finds himself hankering for those years, before the kids had their home address listed as the Observatory, and matters of state had been something abstract.

 

What he’s going to have to explain to them tonight, unless this turns out to be the biggest misinformation in history, hardly bears thinking about. Toby has explained everything from human reproduction to the taxation system to these two bright minds, but he fears words might just fail him when the inevitable happens.

 

There’s a flurry of activity at the newsdesk that draws his attention back to the television, and Huck jabs at the remote to draw the volume up beyond its usual background level. The sweeping network graphics are the first blow, and Toby feels the unfamiliar sensation of his stomach lurching. As the news anchor (Diane? Donna? He used to know these people’s names better than his own family) looks earnestly into the camera, Toby can’t help but cast his eyes down. It’s a reflexive action of grief, and somehow makes the words just a tiny bit easier to bear, when they come.

 

As the cameras cut away to a somber journalist reporting from underneath a huge black umbrella, Toby takes a deep breath and steels himself. Just as he’s about to press the damn button on the damn phone, its shrill ring erupts into the room. He doesn’t seem to remember it ever sounding so loud before.

 

“Andrea?” It’s how he answers, knowing it won’t be anyone else.

 

“Please hold for the President,” cautions a robotic voice that he rarely hears these days outside of nightmares. There’s a click, a crackling silence and then she’s there, words tumbling out without any of her usual finesse.

 

“Toby? Are the kids there?”

 

“They’re here, Andy. We’re all right here, and the agents are on the door.”

 

She sighs in relief, and he can hear the unshed tears in her breathing. She’s always been so good at controlling that, and Toby envies it as he feels the unwanted moisture build in his own eyes.

 

“When the agents can clear it, will you bring them? I want them here tonight. I want you all here.”

 

“Yes ma’am. I’ll stay with them as long as you need me to. I guess you have a busy night.”

 

She exhales again, hard and shaky, and Toby marvels once more at how calm she sounds.

 

“You know how it is. Turns out I just got a promotion—“ Her voice gives out on her then, but Andy recovers. “Tell the kids I love them, and I’ll see them as soon as I can.”

 

He knows she can’t talk to them right now. Talking to Huck and Molly requires the lowering of defensive walls, something both he and Andy have worked so hard at over the years, with considerable success. It’s too risky on a night like tonight though, and Toby knows they’re smart enough to understand. Other kids might be trying to muscle in on the call, shouting in the background and trying to grab attention. These two sit patiently, watching him with serious eyes and awaiting his full and honest report. It would be unsettling if it wasn’t such a damn relief.

 

“I can do that. You need me to bring anything to the Observatory?”

 

“It’ll be the White House. But no, just yourselves,” Andy replies and there’s a moment or two of muffled voices as she consults with someone in the background.

 

“Okay, we’ll see you later. You go do what you have to do,” Toby says, forcing far more than his natural level of warmth into the words. He suspects the next time he hears her voice will be from the television, and that never gets any less weird.

 

He’s just about to hang up when she throws a parting shot his way.

 

“I notice you didn’t wish me luck,” Andy says, just the hint of a pout creeping into the words.

 

“Luck is for amateurs,” he explains. He listens as she sighs, sighs again and forgives him.

 

“Later,” she promises, and with that the call is over.

 

Turning to his quietly expectant children, Toby drops his head and lets a sigh of his own escape. Life is definitely about to get even stranger. 

 

It takes a full hour for the Secret Service to approve opening the front door, and another hour to clear the car to even approach the White House, never mind parking there. There’s even more mumbling into sleeves and pressing of earpieces than normal, but Toby knows better than to complain. 

 

It’s going to be this way for a while.

 

Eventually, as they speed onto Pennsylvania Avenue with three escort cars, Toby stares out at the gray skies. Molly sits beside him, her arm wrapped loosely around his. Huck sits opposite them, behind the driver, and Toby wonders if it’s just habit by now—that boyish novelty of facing the wrong way. 

 

“Should we have changed?” Molly asks, and her voice is suddenly, violently loud in the silence that’s settled between them. Toby can’t form an answer for a moment—his head is foggy and his voice sounds rusty when he speaks—but he knows that his role today is pure reassurance.

 

“No, you’re fine just as you are. There won’t be photos now. Just—your Mom needs to have you nearby, you know?”

 

Huck chimes in, clearly wanting to change the subject. 

 

“How many guns do you think are around us right now?”

 

“As many as they think we need,” Toby answers, with just a hint of warning in his voice. There’ll be a lot of discussion of death, and possibly violence too, in the days to come. They have to be careful that it doesn’t feed into the macabre fascinations of a teenage boy; this has to stay human, real, no matter how much it hurts. 

 

They’re pulling into the Ellipse then, and Toby is relieved to escape the claustrophobia of the car. Andy isn’t waiting to greet them, of course, but Toby leads the kids into the Oval at the agents’ instructions—Andy won’t have time to go anywhere that isn’t there or the Sit Room.

 

When she sweeps into the room, deep in conversation and reading a briefing onscreen at the same time, Toby feels his knees almost give out with relief. Hearing her voice hadn’t been enough—like Gaza he couldn’t trust anything but what his eyes told him—and now she’s there, harried and busy and beautiful. 

 

She stops mid-sentence at the sight of the twins, rushing to gather them up in one of those double-hugs that they never seem to stop fitting into, despite their constant growth spurts. Feeling the tears threaten from the sight alone, Toby exercises some restraint and doesn’t go over there to join them. 

 

Andy meets his eyes over their heads, and it doesn’t take thirty years of knowing her to see that she’s been crying. He wonders how long she allowed herself to grieve, but he’d bet all his worldly goods that it’s somewhere less than five minutes. Toby shuffles his feet a little on the carpet (still a royal blue, despite the different men who’ve held the office) and waits for some kind of instruction for what to do next. This isn’t the kind of return to the White House that he’d had in mind. 

 

The kids pull away eventually, the war between being teenagers and wanting their Mom’s comfort finally choosing a victor. Andy murmurs softly to them both, the words lost to Toby in the vastness of the room, but he watches them turn to their respective agents and walk out onto the Portico.

 

That leaves him almost alone with his ex-wife, but for her omnipresent assistant, Todd. Toby doesn’t think much of the kid, but he’s been around in Andy’s offices since the Rayburn Building (which, Toby has to concede, probably puts him somewhere past thirty now). There’s an ease about the awkwardness now—it’s familiar and something they’ve learned to navigate—even if it sometimes goes awry. Today, though, Toby doesn’t much feel like picking a political argument.

 

“Hey,” he says, breaking the silence. 

 

“I can’t believe this, Toby,” Andy exhales her words rapidly, as though she’s been desperately waiting for an opportunity. For all their faults, they’ve always been able to talk at each other.

 

“I know. I mean, it’s Sam. Even with all this,” Toby waves a hand at the trappings of the Oval Office, “I sort of expected him to go on forever.”

 

And that’s all he can say really, because the President has just died in a Marine One crash, and there’s no way to reconcile that with the preppy guy with floppy hair and monogrammed shirts who used to shame Toby on a daily basis with his boundless energy. Toby’s brain won’t let those two images sit comfortably side by side, and so he shakes his head just a little, as though it might reset him. Like the human brain is some kind of snowglobe, just waiting to start all over again. There’s a dull ache in his chest, and he recognizes the pangs of grief only too well, but right now his concern is for Andrea.

 

She’s pinching her bottom lip between thumb and index finger, and Toby knows that means trouble. There’s something he hasn’t been told yet, and he feels himself tense at the possibility of more bad news. What could be worse than the death of one President Seaborn, Toby wonders for an idle moment? Which is when the possibilities come flooding in—an act of terrorism, worse, of domestic terrorism, perhaps—and he’s ready to offer comforting words when Andy speaks first.

 

“We’re not releasing the names of anyone else on board yet. We can’t until...” She trails off, and there’s a flash of pure pain in her eyes. Toby finds himself stepping closer without any conscious decision to do so. “Obviously, we had to confirm that Sam...it’s a market event, for God’s sake, but--“

 

“Andrea? What else is wrong?”

 

 _Eight people confirmed dead. No survivors_.

 

“We still don’t know how it happened,” she whispers, but Toby is close enough now to hear it. He has no idea what to do with it, but he hears it. “Toby, there’s a real chance we’re being attacked. That’s why the kids had to come here, so we can lock it down. They want me to go back to the bunker.”

 

“You can’t govern from the bunker,” Toby points out, and he’s had this particular conversation before.

 

“The Secret Service are leaning on the FBI to make a preliminary finding. Whatever they rule determines where we all go for the next few days.”

 

“And it’s okay for me to be here?” He asks, because they’ve never talked about drills and security arrangements like these. It didn’t seem relevant in her old job.

 

“You’re cleared,” she reminds him. “And the other primary caregiver for Huck and Molly, so...”

 

“Hey, I don’t mind,” he assures her. “You have to know I don’t want to be anywhere else today.”

 

“I know,” she sighs. “I just forgot that without Stephen...”

 

Her husband, the second husband he never wanted her to have, who stood by her side through all of the campaigning and the Inauguration and who sits at the table during family dinners with Toby’s kids; who died a few months ago, and there’s no way she’s come close to dealing with that yet.

 

Another day, Toby knows he might have felt a fleeting, macabre thrill at the news; some kind of hollow victory to add to his collection. Today, though, it just feels like more genuine sadness, heaped on a person he’s been trying to shield from sadness all the time he’s known her. This universe and its sense of humor need to tone it down on the cruelty, and soon.

 

“Oh, Andy. I’m sorry. I—“

 

She honestly looks like she might crumple for a moment – the lines around her eyes deepen and the glimmer of tears is unmistakable. But true to form, Andrea Wyatt summons up that seemingly indefatigable reserve and the moment passes.

 

“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll have to talk to the kids about all this, soon. But right now, I just can’t. There’s too much to do.”

 

“You’re making an address?” Toby asks, taking her cue to focus on the practical for now. 

 

“Live, all the networks. They’re writing something now. I don’t know how Will finds the words for something like this, but well, he’s got—“ She checks her watch. “Twenty-eight minutes.”

 

“If in doubt,” Toby begins.

 

“Go with my gut,” Andy finishes, nodding as Todd moves himself from the periphery into their conversation.

 

“Madam President,” he says, and both Toby and Andy flinch visibly at the intrusion of that particular reality. 

 

“Okay,” Andy agrees to some predetermined next task. The mask of professionalism slides back into place, and if Toby didn’t know better he might think she was in the midst of just another day at the office. “Toby? Can you go with the kids to the Residence? It’ll be a while before I get up there.”

 

“Of course,” he says, and he hopes that the offer for anything else she might need is heard in his tone. But the kids, for now, he can handle that. Maybe it’s a sudden contemplation of his own mortality, but being around their youth and vibrance seems like the only place he wants to be right now. Around Huck and Molly things somehow stay just a little brighter, and the darkness can’t encroach. 

 

Toby contemplates for a moment whether he should offer a hug, but Andy’s reading something on her little electronic tablet again and he figures the moment has passed. Crossing over to the glass doors, he lets himself out into the fresh air. There’s a reflexive pat of his pocket, but he remembers too late that he doesn’t keep even an emergency cigar there anymore. Not with the repeated admonishments from cardiologist and kids alike. 

 

There’s an agent waiting, another black-suited cog in the well-oiled machine. It doesn’t take a genius to notice how much more visible the Secret Service are today--solid blocks of silent threat--and Toby for one is glad of it. He’ll be waiting hours, maybe days, for the full story he knows, but he’s praying hard that the initial reports of mechanical failure turn out to be true; anything else really is unthinkable. Toby nods in acknowledgment, and the stocky man with the earpiece leads him along a once familiar path to the President’s home. He supposes there are discussions to come about the First Family and living arrangements, but right now Toby could give a damn. 

 

“This way, Mr. Ziegler,” the agent says, and Toby follows obediently.


	3. August 2018

“This way, Mr. Ziegler,” the perky intern squeaks at him, her shirt a violent shade of pink that somehow summons Annabeth to mind. If not for the Seaborn logo on the t-shirt, Toby might well think he’d slipped back in time. He rises from the cheap plastic chair with minimal embarrassment, and follows the too-quick strides of the helpful intern, all the while wishing he’d never answered the damn phone two days ago.

 

The office, when they get there, isn’t much—but it’s clearly the biggest on the whole floor. Toby thinks back to the first days at the White House – waging war to turn the Counsel’s department into Communications, and Sam’s pouting insistence on taking the smaller office as befitted a Deputy. It had frustrated Toby then, the Boy Scout devotion to fairness, but he realizes now that he’s missed it somewhat. It’s been a long damn time.

 

“Governor Seaborn,” he says, before Perky can introduce him. Sam looks up over his reading glasses, hands frozen over a laptop keyboard. There’s a momentary flash of exhaustion, of weariness over another interruption that Toby recognizes all too well, but he’s a little relieved when it gives way to Sam’s expression of genuine enthusiasm.

 

“Toby Ziegler. You made it!”

 

Sam stands, offering a handshake that’s strong and genuine, not the quick pressing of flesh on a ropeline.

 

“Sit, sit,” he orders, kicking at the visitor’s chair for Toby to take in front of Sam’s desk. Toby sits like he’s told, fussing with his tweed jacket which is too damn hot for California, even with all the air-conditioning. He should have known better, but it’s been a long time since he left the East Coast.

 

Toby lets his eyes roam over the room – casually tacked posters announcing Sam’s candidacy, stickers and scribbled notes to join them. There’s a whiteboard full of shorthand and abbreviations, with a poorly shaded map full of holes from frequently moved thumbtacks. It’s a fledgling campaign room, and Toby feels at home in his way.

 

“I got the call, I decided I could use a trip. No harm in flying west,” Toby opens with his usual reluctance, not wanting to get roped into anything that might disrupt his comfortable life of writing, lecturing and getting to know his kids. They’re just into their teens now, and though the terrain is rocky, Toby finds it strangely invigorating. He even has time to date, occasionally, although it’s rarer than everyone else in his life would like.

 

“Your wife will be here shortly,” Sam offers by way of explanation. “So should mine, come to think of it.”

 

“I haven’t been married in fourteen years, Sam.”

 

“Fine. Ex-wife. Andy, whatever.”

 

“What happened to calling her Governor Wyatt?” Toby teases, because it feels like everyone he’s ever been close to is running something these days.

 

“You always did like me with a title, Pokey,” comes the mocking voice from behind him, and Toby frowns at Sam because somehow, this will become Sam’s fault.

 

“Andrea,” Toby says with just a hint of warning as he turns in his seat. She’s a sight for sore eyes, he has to admit. Tall and slender as ever, she looks good in one of these pale blue suits that people only seem to wear in California. He’s grateful for the skirt and the view of her legs it affords him though, and so on balance it’s probably better that he just shuts up.

 

“Hi, Toby,” comes a familiar Southern accent from somewhere behind Andy. A moment later Ainsley steps into view, radiant and blonde as the First Lady of California, and just a little bit pregnant.

 

Toby stands again, mindful of his manners, as he accepts Ainsley’s warm hug. He places a gentle kiss on her cheek before hesitating but ultimately doing the same with his ex-wife. Physical contact can be a problem for them, but the glint of a diamond on her left hand is enough to spoil his mood in that particular direction.

 

After Sam greets his own wife, they take their time to sit, an awkward little foursome with unspoken questions hanging in the air.

 

“So, Donna probably told you when she called,” Sam begins, only to be interrupted by Andy.

 

“Actually, I told her not to,” she explains, her eyes never leaving Toby’s face. He’d be disconcerted, but he’s used to the flare of Andy’s scrutiny; it helps if you always expect to be found wanting.

 

“Well, regardless, there’s a reason I asked you out to California, Toby,” Sam presses on, looking just a little intimidated by Andy, as ever.

 

“I figured as much. I was going to guess that you were offering me the Veep spot, but then I remembered that probably won’t fly with me being a felon and all. Oh, and because you’re about to announce my ex-wife here as your running mate.”

 

Sam deflates a little at Toby’s directness, and Toby hides any lingering nerves about the meeting by smoothing the silk of his tie down over his shirt. He’s in better shape now than when he left the White House—something about not working sixteen hour days that leaves time for exercise and food that isn’t fried.

 

“I have asked the Governor to join the ticket, yes,” Sam admits. “I’m not sure she shouldn’t be at the top, but she tells me it’s better this way.”

 

“It is, Sam. I have two teenagers to contend with, and no wonderful wife. We can discuss this again in four years, maybe shake things up a little.” Andy says with a smile that brooks no arguments.

 

Toby had almost forgotten how majestic she is in the thick of a fight. He winces a little at the subtle dig at his own absence from the kids’ lives, but he can’t really help that Andy never agreed to remarry him and that Columbia University is not in the great state of Maryland. A man has to work, after all, and they’re the school that wanted him.

 

“Anyway,” Sam presses on, and Toby’s struck for a moment at how Sam has aged in their years apart. There’s no mistaking the extra silver in Toby’s beard either, he knows, but the boyish Sam that so frustrated Toby before isn’t much in evidence now. Sam looks a lot more like his father, a comparison that would no doubt still rankle, but Toby thinks it anyway. “We were hoping to bring you on as a consultant.”

 

“Policy?” Toby asks, unable to resist pushing that particular button.

 

“Not directly,” Sam concedes, his voice a little gruff. “The speechwriters are finding it hard to write for me. Something about too much polishing on my feet. I thought perhaps a wiser head...”

 

It’s not nothing, Toby knows. To write for a man who might somehow be President in a couple of months is no small ask. It’s not any less flattering in that sense than it was for Jed Bartlet, but this offer is tainted by the unspoken conditions.

 

“I’ll be working for the DCC?” Toby confirms, asking and answering his own question.

 

“It’s complicated if we have you as direct campaign staff,” Andy interjects, and she has that expression of ‘don’t screw this up’ that he’s seen a thousand times before. The impulse to mess with her is strong, but Toby bites it back just one more time. He’ll feign indecision and no small amount of pride, but there’s no way of denying to himself the buzz he gets just from being back in the thick of a campaign headquarters. It’s like waking up from at least a decade’s slumber and discovering that the world is offering him a consolation prize.

 

It’s not nothing.

 

There’s a knock on the door then, and Donna pops her head around with a smile wider than the Mississippi.

 

“They didn’t screw up the flight booking then?” She’s texting or emailing frantically as she steps into the room, but Toby’s glad to see her nonetheless. He stands to greet her with an awkward hug that Donna makes less so.

 

“Governor,” she begins, and both Andy and Sam shoot back “yes?” which reduces the whole room to quiet laughter.

 

“Let’s try not to do that a lot,” Donna continues, unflustered. “We’ll stick to Secret Service codenames if it gets too confusing. In the meantime, Sam, the Times reporter will be here in five. You need to read the stats on defense spending before you go in there.”

 

Sam takes his cue, pulling on his suit jacket with a slight grimace. When he catches Toby noticing, he shrugs a little.

 

“You try shaking a few thousand hands a day, see if you don’t have a few aches and pains.”

 

“Oh, I’ll pass,” Toby deadpans, turning his attention back to Andy who hasn’t stirred from her seat. Sam leaves with profuse apologies, asking Toby to think about the offer and discuss the finer points with Donna if there are any sticking points.

 

“It would mean a lot to me,” Sam says over his parting handshake. “If you could see your way to helping us out. You know how hard it is to find guys like us.”

 

They all know from Toby’s non-committal mumble that he’s in, but he promises to let Sam know.

 

Donna follows Sam out of the room, leaving Toby with his ex-wife and the only trustworthy Republican he’s come across in the past twenty years. A thought occurs to him then.

 

“Hey Mrs. Seaborn?”

 

“Yes?” Ainsley replies, looking up from the papers in her lap.

 

“You are gonna vote for your husband, right? I know he’s not in your preferred party and all, but it seems a little rude not to.”

 

“That’s between me and the ballot box, Toby.”

 

“Could you please try behaving as though you know what it is to be around people?” Andy sounds less than amused by his attempt at lightening the mood. “We’re making arrangements with the Secret Service today for the kids. You should probably be there.”

 

“Which means Sam’s announcing you in the morning,” Toby surmises. “Big day, Andrea.”

 

She snorts at his statement of the obvious, before taking one of his hands in hers.

 

“We really do need you, Toby.”

 

“Will I be writing for you?” He asks, and he’s aware of Ainsley smirking at them like she thinks this is some Hepburn and Tracy scene, because everyone thinks the bickering couples are so much fun until the shit really hits the fan.

 

She lets go of his hand and fixes him with the patented ‘boy, are you stupid’ stare that too many women in his life have a black belt in. It’s been disconcerting these past few years to see it play out on Molly’s young face too, and Toby thinks he’ll probably never escape it.

 

“You’ll be writing for Sam. I have my own staff.”

 

And thus begins the pissing contest, Toby muses, because there isn’t a damn thing in their lives that Andy has let him come by easily. Her hair is pulled back in one of those loose knot things that she favors on busier days, and he finds himself remembering the evenings when she’d come home and unpin it standing in front of the bathroom mirror, complaining about another day of Congressional stalemate. It doesn’t do to dwell on the past though, and he forces himself onto less troublesome thoughts.

 

“Whatever you say, Governor.”

 

Ainsley stands to leave then, checking her watch with a weary expression. Toby knows, because everyone still talks and CJ used to like to bother him by email, that Ainsley’s first pregnancy was no bowl of cherries. Now it’s four years later in the midst of a national campaign, three weeks until the Convention and Ainsley looks halfway to beat already. He’ll never understand these women and their insistence on doing two of the hardest things in their lives concurrently, but then understanding women has never been his forte.

 

“I’m needed elsewhere,” Ainsley explains as she kisses them both firmly on the cheek. “Harper gets in with my mom soon, and there have probably been a few tantrums on the way.”

 

“How old is she now?” Toby asks out of politeness, since he roughly knows the answer.

 

“She was three last month. Shooting up like crabgrass,” Ainsley confirms with a wry but proud smile.

 

“I hope this means I’ll be seeing more of you, Toby. Andrea, I’ll see you with the Secret Service later.”

 

Toby watches the shorter woman leave, trying not to let his gaze linger on the determined sway of her hips. There’s something about pregnant women, his lizard brain seems to be suggesting, but Andy’s hand on his arm averts the danger.

 

“She hasn’t changed a bit, has she?”


	4. May 2020

Huck and Molly are getting restless, Toby knows, but the Secret Service agents seem happier with everyone confined to the third floor solarium. It’s not exactly showcasing the space to be in it on such a gray and rainy day, but Toby supposes even the sunniest afternoon would be tarnished by the events hanging over them all.

 

Molly is playing with her hair again, and the sighs from Huck are becoming louder and more frequent. It wears on Toby’s anxious mood, until he’s forced to snap at them.

 

“I know your precious cell phones have been taken by the agents, but here we sit, in a room half-full of books. It’s almost as though they were left here in order to divert people, or to help pass the time.”

 

Huck scowls at the sarcasm, but it shuts up his sighing for five minutes or so. Molly takes the hint, leaving her compulsive braiding and re-braiding alone long enough to pick up a well-worn copy of The Shining from a shelf under the window. Toby holds his tongue about her choice and flicks through the Washington Post for the third time.

 

Rain drums down on the glass ceiling like a marching band with no rhythm, and Toby finds himself wondering just how long he might be stuck here. It’s one thing to pull all-nighters in the White House when one has an office with strategically stashed personal items and little comforts, but the Residence has never been a welcoming part of the building for Toby, and it’s even less so today.

 

Before he can ask about Andy’s progress downstairs, there’s a raised gaggle of voices outside in the hall. Toby stands reflexively, expecting his ex-wife and her entourage, but he’s taken aback at the sight of a clearly distraught Ainsley walking in past the agents.

 

“Toby. Huck. Molly,” she addresses them each in turn, her Southern manners perfectly intact. “I just heard you’d been banished up here. Why don’t you come down and wait with us?”

 

She’s been crying, it’s plain to see, but there’s not a trace of a waver in her voice. Toby can feel the awkwardness like cold water running down his spine, and of the many situations in which he feels ill-equipped to be around other people, this is quite possibly the worst to date.

 

“Ma’am; Ainsley,” he corrects, placing an unsure hand on her shoulder. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

 

It’s sincere at least, and she absorbs the words with grace and the sensation that she’s been slapped by an invisible hand. Her grief is some tangible thing in the room with them all, raw and reaching and Toby wishes he could somehow tell her that he knows how that feels, and to reassure her that although there will be countless dark and darker days, she can get through this. But if he knows anything about the First Lady, it’s that she’d thank him not to say any such thing out loud.

 

“It’s so kind of you to offer, but we can’t intrude at a time like this.”

 

“Nonsense,” Ainsley says in a strained voice. Her blouse is partly untucked and her makeup is a ghost of its usual perfection, and Toby thinks if he looked closely enough he’d see that some of those blonde hairs have turned gray even as they’re standing there. “At times like this people should come together. And you, Wyatt-Zielgers, with your hyphens and your long legs and your sad faces, are our people.”

 

Toby has no idea what to say in response to that sort of kindness, but he’s grateful that Molly does. She steps forward with none of her usual shyness and throws her arms around Ainsley for a hug that brings fresh tears to Ainsley’s eyes. Toby looks away, embarrassed.

 

“Come on, y’all. We have food waiting,” Ainsley says when Molly releases her, and Toby ushers the kids to follow her, although he still feels reluctant and out of place.

 

He’s been included since the Inaugural, of course. A few discussions with Sam over bourbon, plenty of calls and emails from Andy or her office making last minute changes to the kids’ schedules. It’s been an experience, living back in the District, and all the more awkward for taking over Andy’s old house; well, the house that was always supposed to be theirs. There’s a nagging feeling though that this isn’t his role anymore, not any of this ceremonial or behind-the-scenes crap that Stephen was at Andy’s side for.

 

It’s just that nobody cares too much about the Vice President and her family arrangements until days like these; days that were never, ever supposed to happen.

 

So they follow Ainsley and the ever-switching agents down one level and join the subdued group huddled in the living room of the President’s private quarters. Toby recognizes most of the faces, if not the names--a few of Ainsley’s staff and her mom, for sure, and one or two suits who have to be some kind of additional protection. In the hours and days to come the Agency and the Feds will be crawling all over their lives, Toby realizes, and it isn’t going to make this very public loss any easier.

 

It helps to worry about Ainsley and whether people will be appropriately sensitive towards her. Toby still can’t believe Sam had the good sense to marry her, the first of his many women to have a flaw so minor as her Party affiliation. Toby can hold his own in a debate, but even he knows better than to pick a fight with Ainsley Hayes--no, Seaborn--without an army of facts to back him up.

 

She doesn’t have much fight in her now though as she sinks into the huge leather sofa and accepts the quietly babbling toddler from her mother. Wyatt might be the only one in the room with no concept of what’s happening right now, and Toby finds himself a little jealous.

 

A steward appears at his elbow, offering coffee that Toby gratefully accepts. It’s too early for the Scotch to be doing the rounds on silver trays, but they’re all going to need a good, stiff drink before the day is out. Huck and Molly accept the juice they’re offered, though it’s clear Molly’s about to request coffee of her own. Toby raises his eyebrows in warning and the words evaporate on her tongue. She only looks a little resentful around her first mouthful of orange juice.

 

Harper comes bounding in from the next room, jarringly happy with her dark pigtails and pink dress. Toby feels a pang looking at her, remembering all the dark nights spent wondering how and if his kids would cope without him, whether in prison or worse. It’s what prompted the reluctant abandonment of cigars and red meat, a far more effective incentive even than trying to win Andy back when the kids were on their way into the world; some sacrifices are worth it.

 

He can tell he isn’t the only one in the room whose heart breaks at the sight of Sam’s daughter, if the murmurs and one or two sniffles are any indication. Harper makes a beeline for Huck, her long-established favorite, and he picks her up the minute her little arms extend in question. Toby sips his coffee and regards his son, so much closer to adulthood now, holding a kid as small as Huck used to be. It’s like watching the passage of time played out in front of them, on a day of particularly cruel jokes.

 

“Hey, Huckie,” Harper says, her eyes big and solemn. She’s the only person in the history of the world who’s ever been allowed to call him that, save for Andy once or twice when Huck had the chicken pox and felt particularly sorry for himself. “Everybody is really boring today,” she continues in a whisper that the whole room hears.

 

“We can go do one of your puzzles, if you like?” Huck looks around the little girl in his arms to Ainsley, who nods with a watery smile. If the kids don’t know yet, Toby can’t imagine how hard that conversation is going to be. He stares down at the carpet for a moment, collecting himself. Wakes and funerals have become too much a part of his life lately, the way weddings used to take up every weekend from spring through fall in his thirties. And that’s what this is, he knows; it’s the beginning of a wake.

 

“Is there...” he begins, uncomfortable when everyone in the room turns at the sound of his voice. Coughing to cover his embarrassment, Toby steps a little closer to Ainsley where she’s half-heartedly bouncing little blonde Wyatt on her knee. “Is there anything I can do for you right now? Do you need me to call anyone?”

 

“The staff have a list. They’re working through the call sheets now,” Ainsley explains, her eyes a little glassy. “I called a few people myself, you know, personal calls.”

 

“Okay,” Toby says, and he leans against the heavy oak bookcase behind him. “But if there’s anything--”

 

He sees the workings of Ainsley’s mind playing out on her face; Sam used to mock her for being too transparent. She had pointed out that, since she wasn’t a professional poker player, that didn’t really matter much.

 

“Maybe some people who won’t be on the sheets? From the old White House, I mean?”

 

Another pang grips Toby in his chest at the thought. The thought of who won’t be contacted, of who it’s not possible to contact. He wonders if, without his connection to Andy, he would be on any of those lists. There’s been some crossover in personnel, for sure. Donna Moss, for example, served in the last Democratic administrations, but has stubbornly refused to be recruited to this one. Annabeth is around somewhere, and a bunch of the Santos guys too. Toby feels old just thinking about it.

 

He finds the words on his tongue, his brain catching them just in time. He wants to ask if anyone’s thought to contact CJ, if anyone has called her and if she’s flying in from California today. The ache of none of that being possible comes roaring up, and with all the grief in the room, Toby has no defenses left to stop it.


	5. June 2017

“Let him in, Anya.” The voice is thin, and distant, but he’s been waiting for it.

 

The short, dark-haired nurse steps back with a scowl, and for a moment Toby can see she’s thinking of disobeying. The door is still barely ajar, so he pushes his way in and stumbles a little on the smooth floor of the hallway. He realizes, after a beat, that he hasn’t actually been to this house before, but it’s familiar in a way that is all CJ. A crueler part of Toby wonders how Danny feels about that, before deciding that he doesn’t care. 

 

He breathes in the cool air, an oasis in the sticky hell of Southern California weather, and smiles at the smooth white walls with their tasteful prints, the scent of some flower or other getting stronger as he walks down the hallway. 

 

Not knowing the geography doesn’t hinder him (at least not as much as the Jack Daniels is kicking the crap out of his ability to walk in something approaching a straight line) because that sixth sense he’s always had for CJ tells him he’s headed into the right direction. Sure enough, when he stumbles out into some kind of sun porch (filled with too much imported greenery, and isn’t that just so damn California?) there’s CJ: regal and just a little bit mocking in her oversized chair. This is the throne room, Toby amends, and he’s just been granted an audience.

 

“Boy, are _you_ on the wrong side of the country,” CJ greets him, her mouth a firm line of disapproval. 

 

There are a few more lines either side of her lips now, evidence of the many great smiles she’s shared with the world, but Toby can’t dwell on that as he unashamedly lets his eyes rove over her graying hair, the lack of light in her eyes, the pallor of her skin that’s got nothing to do with high SPF numbers. She’s somehow untouched by the sunshine, even as she sits bathed in it.

 

“I heard California is lovely this time of year,” he lies, because it’s never been lovely on any of the godforsaken days that he’s been dragged here. Coming here, like this, of his own volition is a bigger defeat than what he’s running from in the first place--and CJ knows that every bit as well as he does. 

 

“Are you drunk?” She asks next, eyes narrowed in suspicion. It’s a familiar sight, enough to force a hiccup of relief in his chest.

 

“No ma’am,” Toby shoots back. “But I’m at least halfway there.”

 

Maybe the truth will set him free. Maybe the truth doesn’t matter even a little bit.

 

“It’s eleven in the morning,” CJ lectures, just a little.

 

“I’m on East Coast time. My buzz is perfectly respectable. Not to mention, it’s a tribute to the craft of the good people of Tennessee.”

 

“A state you once tried to remove from the Union,” CJ reminds him.

 

“We all make mistakes,” Toby answers, and there’s another non-apology for the collection. There’s been a lot of time passed since he really screwed her over, but somehow he’s not quite done alluding to it. 

 

CJ, being the better person--and hasn’t she always been, really?--lets the allusion slide.

 

“It’s that bad? You couldn’t stick around, just for the kids?”

 

“She’s marrying someone else!” Toby yells, and he regrets it as his words echo in the generous space.

 

“I guess that does suck,” CJ concedes, before patting the chair next to her. “I think we have Jack Daniels in the house somewhere. I might even join you.”

 

With a gratitude he can’t begin to express, Toby takes the offered seat. He watches CJ as she makes herself comfortable, averts his eyes when Anya enters the room to give some injection or other. It’s silent, but not awkward, until they both have a heavy-bottomed glass in their hands. 

 

“So, how about that cancer?” Toby offers lamely. This isn’t Dallas, and they’re not talking about the Cowboys. They’ve always failed spectacularly at small talk, stuck instead on the things that were much, much too big. 

 

“I’m beginning to understand why so many people are in favor of curing it,” CJ retorts, drier than the Sahara, and isn’t that how he’s always liked her best?

 

“Danny?” They don’t talk about him, in the emails and late-night calls. Toby’s not rude enough (though he wants to be) to ignore the man in his own house.

 

“He took Isabella to his sister’s for the weekend.” 

 

Which, if Toby is thinking of the right sister, means a 1000-mile round-trip. He doesn’t dare speculate on what that means for CJ’s health, or the health of her relationship, and despite a lifetime of pushing too far Toby holds his tongue. 

 

“You must be enjoying the peace,” he says, although there’s nothing approaching peace in CJ’s face.

 

“Yeah,” she lies, more transparent than he’s used to. “So, you want to bitch about Andy’s new husband?”

 

“I’d rather get drunk and complain about what the Republicans just did to the education system,” Toby replies, and that might be the most honest thing he’s said since getting there.

 

CJ offers her glass in a belated toast. The crystal clinks against crystal with a satisfying noise.

 

“Deal.”

 

“You look tired,” he says hours later, breaking a new and comfortable silence.

 

“Always, with the charm.”

 

“No, I mean--you wanna sleep for a little bit? It’s just us.”

 

CJ looks like she wants to refuse him, like she’s marshaling arguments or considering throwing him out so she can rest alone. They’ve always been this way though--able to be tired around one another. To sleep--really, truly sleep--around another person requires a tremendous amount of trust for them both. Campaign dozes or a light nap after a one-night stand don’t count, but this, with a blanket and possible physical contact and the deep, dreamless sleep they’ve scarcely allowed themselves in the past forty years—that’s something only a select few get to share.

 

“I think I’d like that.”

 

“Is this sofa okay? Or can I take you to a bed somewhere?”

 

There’s a hint of suggestion in his tone, a habit as old as their friendship. CJ cocks her eyebrow in amusement, because they both know that this isn’t a night to get sloshed and forget they ever worked together (or slept together, or rode out scandals together, or married other people).

 

“I really am tired,” CJ blurts out, tears threatening in her eyes.

 

Toby stands, with surprisingly little difficulty. They haven’t drunk much, all told, and his intoxication has been wearing off slowly. 

 

“I got this,” he says, flexing out his arms. She’s a little cool to the touch, a lot more fragile than he remembers, but he puts his arms in place anyway.

 

“You’re _not_ going to carry me,” CJ mutters, but she wraps her arms around his neck anyway.

 

“Yeah, I really am. Just a little bit, until we can find you a bed.”

 

“Guest room is three doors down,” CJ says, defeated. He doesn’t ask why she wants to go there instead of her bedroom, doesn’t want to ask if he’ll be invited to lie there with her. He has no plan for this impromptu trip, just a hastily packed overnight bag without half the things he needs, and an e-ticket number scrawled on the back of a dollar in his wallet. 

 

She’s too light when he picks her up, and while aging joints might be grateful, he feels like he’s just a boy again, carrying his mother’s one crystal bowl to the table. It had been a constant competition between David and him, who would be deemed old enough and responsible enough to carry the one family heirloom from the kitchen to the table for Shabbat dinners. The pressure of actually holding it in his hands had always been stressful though, and Toby felt that same shaking in his wrists and elbows from the concentration of trying to be so very careful. 

 

He lays her gently on the bed, noting the pills and medical supplies lying around that suggest this is no temporary arrangement. Toby’s pulling the sheets up when she places a hand on his cheek, stroking lightly with her thumb.

 

“You have to make it right, with Andy,” CJ whispers.

 

“Okay,” Toby promises. The bed is small, and so he pulls up the wingback chair from over by the closet. 

 

“Toby?” CJ whispers, her face partially obscured by the pillow.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I’m glad you came.”


	6. May 2020

Toby checks in with the kids, both engaged in a puzzle with Harper. While Molly is trying to find the edge pieces, Huck is ducking and weaving to avoid the ones Harper is throwing at his head.

 

“I just need to step out for a minute,” Toby tells them, and the kids nod after a brief exchange of panicked looks. He shouldn’t leave them alone, not on a day like this, but he needs a minute alone. Calling Bonnie, calling Ginger, or anyone else they can rustle up a number for, that’s just a pretext.

 

He steps out into the hallway, crossing over to the private office. An agent mutters something into his sleeve before opening the door a few inches and indicating that Toby can pass. He half-smiles in acknowledgment, aware of his reputation with both the Secret Service and the various military personnel encountered on trips to the White House; there are some stains that no pardon can remove.

 

It turns out to have been a mistake, seeking a moment alone to grieve, because Toby has stepped into a room so obviously, painfully Sam’s that he can’t breathe. He’s pressed back against the door by the force of ghosts, larger than life and sucking all the oxygen from the otherwise welcoming room. Toby feels his hand forming a fist, brings it to his mouth without any conscious decision, and bites down as the first tears fall. He’s crying for Sam, and for CJ, and for the first President he loved and lost; he’s crying for David, for Leo, and for his mother. 

 

The sob, when it escapes, sounds like an animal in pain; Toby supposes that right now, that’s all he is. He lets the emotion consume him for a minute, maybe two. Pretending he has a choice, that he’s allowing it, is of some little comfort.

 

Just as he composes himself, there’s a knock at the door behind his back. Wiping his eyes roughly with the back of his hand, he opens the door to an unknown aide, handing him a sheet of paper with names and numbers neatly typed. 

 

He can’t bring himself to sit in the fashionably worn leather chair, and leaning against the front of Sam’s desk, Toby takes a deep breath and makes the first call. 

 

*

 

She finds him as she expected: alone. Andy has checked in on the kids for another reassuring round of hugs, and stopped to talk with Ainsley for a few painful minutes. Feeling very much a stranger in someone else’s home, she left in search of Toby as soon as possible.

 

The agents are everywhere she turns now, and it’s wildly disorienting. Far worse than the campaign trail, and she supposes it’s all stepped up in response to the helicopter crash, but there are hours of briefings still to come before any of them can know exactly what the crash was. It’s exhausting to think about, and so fortified by the contact with Huck and Molly, Andy steels herself for the hundredth time since receiving the news.

 

Toby’s leaning against the desk, watching a rerun of her speech with the sound down low. Andy supposes they’ll be looping it all night now, until there’s more footage to play. There’s a media strategy to coordinate, the agencies to consult, and a million other things to consider, but right now the world is simply watching her make a three-minute speech over and over again. 

 

“Hey,” is what she tries to say, but Toby responds instead to the choking noise that’s all she can manage to make. Too many hours already of being strong, of being unflappable; she needs a few minutes with someone else taking the strain.

 

And in a split-second he’s there, offering one of those hugs that she wants to lose herself in every time. Arms that have supported her and soothed her and restrained her when she’s needed it most, wrapped tight around her torso as Andy lets her head rest on his shoulder. 

 

“You did great,” he whispers into her hair, and she wonders if he means the speech or just being able to sit there and say anything in the first place. She’d had to polish, of course, just like Sam had done with everything Otto had written for him in the past two years. All the technical ability in the world can’t match the words of a virtuoso, and Andy’s one of those fortunate to have been spoiled by great writers and her own flair for improvisation.

 

In a minute she’ll have to go, another briefing from the FBI and then the Secret Service. More paperwork than she’d ever dreamed of awaiting her signature. It’s going to be a long day and an even longer night, and any vain hopes Andy might have of sleeping are fading with each new name on her callsheet or knock on the door. 

 

Speaking of which, there’s a polite rap that disturbs this unexpected moment of peace.

 

“Just a minute,” she rasps, her voice not quite returned to her.

 

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Toby explains with downcast eyes once they separate (again. So good at separating, but not staying together in the first place.) “Say the word and this can be the Speaker’s problem. Me, you, the kids: we’ll take off and you can pass this off to the next in line.”

 

“That’s a nice offer,” Andy replies, smiling as sincerely as she can. “But we’re in it now.”

 

“Yeah, I figured,” Toby says, looking up at last. His eyes are red-rimmed but full of faith. 

 

The knock at the door comes again, and Andy shakes her head at the lack of power in this most powerful of jobs.

 

“Coming,” she says, more firmly this time. She smooths down her suit jacket, a simple navy pinstripe that was never intended to be worn to an impromptu Inauguration. Sworn in fifty feet below the ground, on a borrowed Bible with half of the New Testament missing. One for the archives, no doubt.

 

Toby moves to follow her out of the room, no doubt to check on the twins himself, but Andy stops him for a moment by placing a hand on his chest. (He’s solid, and warm, and so very alive. Thank God, thank God, thank God.)

 

He looks at her, patiently for once, and waits for her to speak. Instead, Andy grabs the breast pocket of his shirt in both hands and tears, swiftly and decisively. He looks shocked, then angry for a moment, but her words chasten him.

 

“We’re in mourning, Toby.”

 

“Right,” is all he says, taking one of her hands and squeezing it. “Hell of a way to get a promotion.”

 

Andy nods, sadly, and then steps into the hallway where the agents usher her on to the next stop of god knows how many.


	7. July 2008

The room isn’t quite full yet: empty seats are still evident at the immaculately-laid tables, and the noise is still at a politely contained murmur. Andy fidgets in her seat just a little, careful not to let her attentive smile slip as she does. Elspeth Something-Rich-Sounding is still prattling on about some statue dedication ceremony, and even with the best will in the world Andy checked out about thirty seconds into the conversation. She nods whenever there’s a brief pause, careful not to commit and when ancient Elspeth with her errant chin hairs and mean eyes stops lecturing the table, Andy is sure to make a vague comment about checking her diary. Even if the miracle of a few free hours were to emerge, there’s next to no chance that she’ll give it up to another snotty historical society.

 

The summer’s day has a powerful heat--wet and muggy in a way that makes even the light dress and jacket Andy’s wearing feel too heavy. Her legs are bare, which she wouldn’t have risked back in Washington, but the elderly ladies of Montgomery County don’t seem to care much. Andy’s worried briefly that the poor air-conditioning in the hall will have her passing out on the floor, but pride alone should stop her doing that in a room full of women twice her age. Not that she’s feeling particularly useful, since this heatwave has her feeling like she might be in the grip of a hot flash.

 

At some unseen signal the room’s murmur rises to a steady buzz, and the stragglers take their seats, helping themselves to sweating glasses of iced tea. Andy is relieved when the huge double doors on the side of the hall finally part, allowing a generous breeze to part the clouds of dated perfumes and overpowering freesias.

 

Vince Stroman is a sight for sore eyes, Andy thinks as he comes striding into the room. Still with that athletic grace that made him a US Olympian, he’s smiling at the crowd rising to their feet, gripping every offered hand and shaking it sincerely as he works the room. His suit is a muted gray, bringing out the salt in his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly; Marge still dresses her husband well, it would seem. Andy’s grateful to no longer be the only elected official in the room, and she hangs back at her table as Vince works his way through the crowd to the podium.

 

His marks are brief but witty, congratulating the assembled members on their public service and expressing the thanks of a grateful Governor. It’s not hard to see why the man is wildly popular, the first Republican elected to the State House since Spiro Agnew. Andy applauds sincerely when he’s done, and doesn’t have to wait long for him to seek her out.

 

“Congresswoman,” he greets her, with a warm hug instead of the requisite handshake. “That title still looks good on you.”

 

“It’s had seven terms to grow on me,” she admits, and blinks quickly in case he catches any hint of restlessness in her eyes. For a few months now the prospect of a new challenge has been gnawing at her thoughts, but with six year old children and no obvious upwards move, Andy is a little stumped. “You’re looking well, Governor.”

 

He guides her with a light touch to the elbow, his cologne faint but expensive as he leans into her slightly. In a matter of moments they’re in the anteroom where his staff are buzzing around, focused intently on screens and cellphones as the two of them walk in.

 

“You can still call me, Vince, you know.”

 

“You started it—with the titles,” Andy shoots back. It’s good to slip back into this particular groove, and she wonders what she’s been hauled aside for a debate on – it could be her recent vote to increase Capital Gains Tax, or perhaps her comments about Israel and trade. 

 

“I have a proposal for you, Andrea.” He mutters something to the nearest aide, and all of a sudden the room empties out. Andy catches a glimpse of the waiting state troopers as the door closes behind them. “My second term is coming to an end.”

 

“Not for a while,” Andy can’t resist pointing out. This could be going somewhere hysterical, and she has a sinking feeling in her stomach usually reserved for terse telephone calls with Toby. She catches herself fidgeting with a strand fallen loose from the morning’s low-maintenance chignon, waiting for Vince Stroman to surprise her once again.

 

“I want you to be my successor. I’ll endorse you, if you run.”

 

The temperature rockets up by about twenty degrees, and Andy can’t quite believe what she’s hearing. That Vince would give her good news, or a shot at a great job is nothing new—she clerked for him right out of law school, and he’s had her back publicly and privately ever since. Sure, he drives her insane sometimes with his small government rhetoric and refusal to budge on same-sex marriage, but by and large they make a balanced political pairing. Maryland has done well by their collective actions, even if Andy had a shaky time in her last two re-election campaigns.

 

“You don’t beat around the bush, do you?” She’s stalling, Andy is mortified to discover. “I’ve always liked that about you.”

 

“No kidding. The DNC has a shortlist that would make both of us choke. If we move quickly and quietly, we can get your name on there and at the top before they know what’s hit them.”

 

“Well,” Andy says. “Do I need to point out that you’re not in anyway affiliated with the Democratic Party? You play for the other team, remember?”

 

“You know what I mean. It’s a small state, if we choose to make it that way. Nobody has a vested interest in rocking the boat after six steady years.”

 

“Don’t you have a loyalty to your own party?” Andy can’t quite bring herself to trust this notion, not even from a man she’s known twenty years or more.

 

“I do. I sit in the meetings and listen to them try to drum up fundraising to make it easier to buy guns, easier to discriminate against gay people, and wondering just which throwback nutjob would get them the biggest bucks. I won’t be part of that, Andy. There has to be a place for moderates in this country.”

 

“I can’t run for Governor; I’m a single mom with two kids under seven. My ex-husband was a national security threat—“

 

“Not to mention you drink like a fish and cheat very badly at poker,” Vince supplies, helpfully.

 

“Right. So this pipe dream of me running for Governor can’t go anywhere; especially not outside of this room.” Andy can’t help running the possibilities in her head though, even as she shoots the idea down. Maybe finding the right campaign message early, dealing with the past issues in a firm manner and putting them to bed… but no, reality can’t be ignored.

 

“Do me a favor,” Vince pleads, his eyes drifting to his watch and no doubt the next appointment of many. “Think about it. There’s a woman at this lunch you should talk to--Connie Tate--and I think she might help you see the light.”

 

“I know Connie. She worked for Bartlet; for Toby, really.”

 

“Talk to her, please.” Vince is on his way to the door, almost done with the discussion. “And promise me we’ll have dinner when you’re next in Annapolis—Marge and the kids would love to see you.”

 

“Sure,” Andy says, though her tone should make it clear she’s only agreeing to dinner. “Have a good one.”

 

With that he’s gone, and some of the staff trickle back in. Andy knows a cue to leave when she sees it, and she’s halfway to the ladies room with a strawberry blond woman with a blinding smile stops her.

 

“Congresswoman Wyatt?”

 

Right, Andy thinks. Figures that she wouldn’t get a chance to decide for herself whether or not to speak to this woman. Andy’s surprised Vince didn’t have Connie waiting right outside the door.

 

“You must be Connie? My ex-husband told me a lot about you.”

 

“I hope he focused on my brilliant political mind and savant-like abilities?” Connie’s smile says she knows that Toby said nothing of the kind, and Andy half-shrugs in acknowledgment.

 

“Something like that.”

 

“You got time for a decent cup of coffee? There’s a Starbucks just down the road.”

 

With the House in recess and the kids at camp, Andy can’t think of a quick and plausible reason to say no.

 

“Sure, I’ll get my things.”

 

Twenty minutes of small talk and weirdly similar coffee orders later, both women are seated at a slightly-sticky table and sipping their respective lattes. Careful to keep her voice low, Connie makes her opening salvo. 

 

“You’d make a pretty good Governor you know.”

 

Andy snorts into her coffee, having expected a little bit of a lead-in before getting down to brass tacks. 

 

“So would a lot of people,” Andy warns, regaining some of her composure.

 

“True. But you’re a beloved Congresswoman, just into her eighth term, who overcame scandal-by-association and who has great contacts from the White House and all over the Hill. Not to mention Maryland has never had a female Governor, so EMILYs List will have a field day. Let’s not get started on the rest of the women’s organizations yet; I don’t want to blow your mind.”

 

“Sounds like you’ve done your research,” Andy replies, slightly taken aback at having her career laid out so plainly.

 

“It’s part of the being brilliant that I mentioned. Doesn’t hurt that you have two photogenic kids and a record on the issues that most Democrats can only dream about.” Connie seems relaxed as she dissects Andy’s life in front of her.

 

“My kids are largely off-limits. And being divorced, with Toby in New York…”

 

“We’re not living in the Dark Ages, Congresswoman. State Houses all over the country are home to divorcées and less-than-conventional families. We’re not back in the twentieth century anymore.”

 

“Sometimes we are,” Andy points out, because she’s still fielding dumbass comments on a near-daily basis.

 

“True. But we’ve had a good few years to learn how to work around that.”

 

Connie finishes the rest of her coffee in two hearty gulps, before collecting her purse and standing up to leave. She pushes a card across a clean section of the table, tapping it twice for emphasis.

 

“Let’s talk next week, when you’ve had time to mull it over. If you have any questions, just shoot me an email. It’s been nice to finally meet you.”

 

Andy takes the card with some reluctance, but by the time she slips it into her purse Connie is out the door and striding down the sidewalk. It feels strange to be the one manipulated for a change—she’s gotten comfortable being Queen of most of what she surveys in these past few years.

 

Pulling out her cellphone, Andy tells herself she’s just checking for messages from the nanny. The excuse fades pretty quickly when she hits speed dial 6 instead.

 

“Toby? It’s me. You got a minute?”


	8. July 2008

The bar isn’t crowded when Toby arrives, though it looks a little different to what he was expecting. Finding a discreet place to drink in a company town has always proven difficult, but his ex-wife has made a career out of pulling off the nigh-impossible. So he’s taken a taxi to some backwater drinking hole in Maryland, very much against his better judgment, and it’s not the soulless wine bar with unbearable lighting that he might have expected.

 

The bartender is an older guy, one who looks like he was built in behind the bar with the wine racks and the polished counter-top. Sitting on the first stool he comes to, Toby half-smiles and raises a finger to order his Scotch. There’s something niggling at the back of his mind, a drowsy familiarity to the dull brass fittings and the dusty mirror behind the bottles.

 

“Mr. Ziegler, it’s been a while,” the bartender greets him, and Toby feels that familiar dread of another forgotten name. It’s embarrassment, really, at being out of the loop and having forgotten too many people who did favors and wanted favors when Toby had the ear of the nation’s most powerful people (and yes, okay, when he _was_ one of those powerful people, a notion he’s still not made any peace with).

 

“I’m mostly in New York these days,” he offers by way of explanation.

 

“Well, your wife says to meet her in back. And she took the bottle, so I guess that’s what you’ll be drinking,” the older man says, apparently unsurprised by Toby’s lack of recognition. The bartender gestures vaguely with the cloth he’s been wiping down the taps with, and Toby takes his cue to seek out Andy. Not least to tell her he doesn’t appreciate being summoned like this, because unless the kids need him he’d rather not brave the dubious civilization of Amtrak.

 

The door is bolted from the inside when he tries it, and he curses silently at the thought that this might be some practical joke, or some valuable lesson that Andy deems him to still be in need of learning. He can’t think of anything in particular that pissed her off before her call yesterday though, and so the element of mystery lingers even when he hears the dull scrape of a metal bolt and one door swings inwards to reveal the woman he’s now spent more time being divorced from than married to (for all the difference that makes). 

 

He steps inside at her unspoken invitation, enjoying the feel of her brushing past him as she closes and re-bolts the door.

 

“Thanks for coming, Toby. Tom let me have the pool room for a little while.”

 

“We couldn’t meet at the house?”

 

“We can go there, later. I wanted to talk to you before the kids see you. I don’t really have the patience tonight for three hours of ‘Daddy’s here’ chaos. You don’t mind?”

 

“Why would I mind?” Toby asks, with the requisite dose of sarcasm. He steps closer to the center of the room where the green baize of the table calls to him with its halo of warm light. It’s old-fashioned in here, and he likes it. Where the hell was this bar, with the Tom who obviously knows them both, when he needed an escape for seven years in the White House?

 

“Drink?” Andy asks, pointing towards the bottle on the edge of the table. There’s an empty glass next to it, its companion resting in her hand already.

 

“You planning to take advantage of me?” He shoots back, drinking in the sight of her in unusually casual (but tight) faded jeans and a fitted white shirt. There’s a time when it might have been one of his own, but this is obviously still tailored to her body and not his. Perhaps she’s been missing the borrowed shirts all this time and finally acted on it. 

 

Andy raises an eyebrow in both warning and amusement, but says nothing at his cheap jibe. They’re supposed to be past the sniping and the innuendo, but sometimes without Huck and Molly around the old bloodlust raises up once more. It’s two seasoned pros back in the ring for a prizefight, and Toby’s feeling weary about lacing up the gloves again. 

 

“So, assuming you don’t want me to kick your ass at pool,” Toby attempts, taking a different path. “Want to tell me why you casually demanded my presence here in god knows where?”

 

Andy takes a long drink and empties her glass. She pours for both of them, her eyes hidden behind that damn curtain of red hair. The strands of silver are standing out in the light, and Toby takes a deep breath to think of anything but running his fingers through it. Her ability to distract him is rivaled only by her ability to infuriate him, and if he’s to get back to New York with his sanity intact, he’ll keep his wits about him. 

 

“How was the journey?” Andy ventures as she hands over his glass. 

 

Toby’s hand raises of its own volition, curiosity and impatience escaping through his fingers as he cuts her off.

 

“Enough, Andrea.” She pouts, but he continues. “Why am I here?”

 

“I wanted to run something past you,” she sighs the words, drawing Toby’s full attention to her mouth where she’s sucking on a Scotch-splashed ice cube (ice that she didn’t offer him). 

 

“You need my advice?” His voice creeps a little higher than he’d like, the incredulity creeping in.

 

“No,” she snaps. “I wanted to... float a suggestion and see what you think. I have advisers, if I need advice.”

 

“Then by all means, float. Float your ideas because time is wasting here; we’re not getting any younger.”

 

She puts her glass down on the nearest stool, though it’s only two sips from empty. Andy walks towards him with intent, but veers off at the last minute to pick a pool cue from the rack.

 

“I’ll tell you as we play. I get to break.”

 

And it’s then that Toby realizes it’s serious. Andy comes at him like a two-ton truck on most issues--political, ethical, sporting--but when it’s personal she gets fidgety, and always has. 

 

So he lets her break. 

 

She pots nothing, and hands over the cue with a shrug of indifference. Toby bends to line up his shot, and just as the cue is sliding over the joint of his thumb, she blurts it out.

 

“Governor.”

 

Toby recovers in time to avoid ripping the fabric, but he sends the cue ball careening wildly around the table. 

 

“You?” He splutters. He can’t help it.

 

“Me,” she confirms, hands on hips now in defiance. She’s defying him to laugh her out of the room, to scold her for getting ideas above her station (but there is nothing above Andrea Wyatt’s station, and she’s known that pretty much her whole life). 

 

“Of Maryland?” Toby just about keeps the habitual sneer out of his voice; he’s never shared Andy’s passion for her home state.

 

“You missed out ‘the great state of’ there, Pokey, but I’ll let it slide. Of course, Maryland! Christ.”

 

The telltale flush is on her cheeks now, and Toby feels a wave of nostalgia big enough to drown him rushing through. Maybe this is how other people feel about family holidays or trips to Paris in the spring, but for him (and for Andy, he hopes) this is the thing he misses on gloomy mornings and empty nights. He’s missed her too, maybe a lot, but he’s not foolish enough to tell her that out loud.

 

“I wasn’t aware Maryland had a vacancy, is all I’m saying.”

 

“That’s never ‘all you’re saying’, but yes, Stroman is in his second term. So, come the next election...”

 

Toby lines up his shot again, breathing deeply and enjoying the click as the ball makes contact with its intended target. It’s the most relaxing moment of his day by far.

 

“Is this coming from the national Party? I thought I would have heard.”

 

He already knows the answer, can see the connection in her defensive posture and the sparkle in her eye that says she knows he’ll be jealous.

 

“Vince suggested it. Yesterday.”

 

And damn it, if he isn’t as predictable as Andy banked on, because Toby feels the tightness of jealousy clutching momentarily in his chest. Vince Stroman happens to be a fine Governor, and his influence and guidance in Andy’s career have clearly done her proud, but there was really no need for the man to be so disgustingly handsome and distinguished while he did it. Though he’d never been anything but congenial with Toby, the Olympic medals and the private sector success on top of the successful political career made a guy struggling to get someone elected Dogcatcher feel a little shabby in comparison. 

 

“What a cozy chat that must have been,” Toby mutters as he lines up his next shot. 

 

“Oh, get over yourself,” Andy snipes at him, and it’s enough to make him miss the middle pocket altogether. He practically throws the cue at her in frustration, but she grabs it and saunters towards the table as though they’re simply discussing the weather.

 

“If you called me down here--a journey that might have been avoided by use of such pedestrian methods as telephone or email, I might add--then I assume this means you’re considering it?”

 

She nods, and sinks her spotted ball in the bottom right without blinking. Toby gulps and runs an instinctive finger around the collar of his shirt, glad that he didn’t bother with the formality of a tie. A lot of things have changed in twenty-something years, but the effect of Andrea bending over in front of him isn’t one of them, especially now that she’s moved around the table to give him the best view in the house. She sinks another, then straightens up to pour another liberal measure into her glass, toasting him mockingly when she does.

 

“Okay, let me have it,” she sighs after her first mouthful. The resigned tone is accompanied by a ‘come on’ gesture that only draws Toby’s attention to her hands. As ever, his feelings towards her are clouding the cold rationality that he should be drawing on. 

 

“Well, there’s a huge difference between Congresswoman and Governor, so let’s start there. Not only will the campaign be twenty times the work you’re used to--and this includes places like Baltimore, where they don’t take kindly to nice ladies from Montgomery County patronizing them about drugs just to shore up votes--but it also exposes Huck and Molly to a level of scrutiny that neither one of us will be comfortable with.”

 

Well, damn. Seems the rationality kicked in just when he needed it to, if the angry glare he’s receiving is any indication. He could quit while he’s ahead, but Andy’s pissed enough at him for quitting (on her, on the kids, on Washington when things got rough) and so he takes a deep breath and keeps digging his grave.

 

“The First Family of Maryland, huh? Really? You think being a divorced single mother won’t be an issue? Or is this your backwards-ass way of saying that, six years after the last time I asked, you’re thinking about marrying me? Because I’m telling you, Andrea, that offer is no longer on the damn table.”

 

“Nice,” she retorts, throwing the cue on the table and scattering the balls all over the place. Game over, apparently. Toby finds his hands on his hips out of habit, indignation speaking for him even before he chooses his next words.

 

“You know what I mean!” He doesn’t mean to let so much exasperation show, but the conversational clouds are some dark, dark gray bastards and they’ve been rolling in ever since he set foot in this bar. 

 

“Other people think I should run.”

 

“Who? Give me names, and I’ll tell you why they’re idiots.”

 

Andy bites back a nasty retort, her mouth snapping shut but her eyes still burning. She forces herself to take a deep breath before speaking to him again. Always that little more patient, always trying to hold the high ground for one more minute before succumbing to the fight. Toby’s counting out the conversation in rounds, hoping to avoid the knock out blow. He used to be better at heading her off, but he’s rusty as hell despite the adrenalin that she sends coursing through his veins just by being there. 

 

“Well, there’s Governor Stroman,” she jabs, just to make him wince. “Then Connie Tate took me out for coffee and all but wrote a seven-point plan on the back of a napkin.”

 

“You’re friendly with Connie Tate? When did this happen?” He’s suspicious now, uncomfortable with Andy delving into any part of his previous life. 

 

“She’s a brilliant campaign manager. I’m a politician. However could our paths have crossed?” Andy snarks, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips once more. She’s back to enjoying knowing things that Toby doesn’t, and that almost never ends well. She brings the bottle over in a dubious gesture of peace and refills both their glasses as they stand, not enough inches apart.

 

“Then I got to work this morning and found Bruno Gianelli arguing with my secretary. That makes the Ghost of Christmas future and I completed the set, right? They say things come in threes.”

 

“Three people. One’s a Republican. One worked for the Republicans twelve years ago and nearly got Vinick elected President. And Connie? She might be brilliant, but she’s a theorist who’s happier in Oxford than Bethesda, you know what I’m saying?”

 

“I never know what you’re saying,” Andy wisecracks, right to his face. “Are you saying that if I run for Governor, I’ll lose?”

 

He thinks for a minute, gulping down his Scotch in one and bouncing just a little on the balls of his feet. It all comes down to this, the next few words that for once are not about parent teacher conferences or who gets what for Thanksgiving break. 

 

“I’m saying you’ll win; and that scares the crap outta me. Why doesn’t it scare the crap out of you?”

 

“Unlike you, I can handle winning more than once. It’s not that scary.” 

 

Toby leans in, ostensibly to place his empty glass on the edge of the pool table, but he’s gratified to hear the little hitch in her breathing; some things never change. 

 

“I’ve missed you,” Andy murmurs as he’s pulling back, the words warm for an instant against his cheek. 

 

“I could tell,” Toby covers the jolt her words have sent through him, he hopes. “From the many snippy phone messages. And the personal threats in your emails. Clearly, you’ve been pining for my company.”

 

Andy puts her own glass down next to his, prodding him in the chest with one long finger when she turns back towards him. 

 

“I’ve been pissed at you for a long time; I’m tired of being this angry.”

 

“Angry women probably don’t get elected Governor. It scares the voters,” he’s barely murmuring now, and the quiet of the room is closing in on them despite the jukebox music distorted by the closed door. “I didn’t mean to make you angry.”

 

“You never do. And yet somehow you always find a way.”

 

She’s tracing that finger down over the buttons of his shirt now, and Toby realizes that the Governorship is off the agenda for now. And so, without regard for the countless Beltway rumors that filter through--about dates with distinguished businessmen and even an actor famous enough for Toby to have heard of--he kisses her tenderly, as though it might be his last chance to do it.

 

Andy doesn’t seem shocked at the boldness of the gesture, in fact she sighs just a little, in a way that suggests it’s what she’s been waiting for. Toby nips at her bottom lip in chastisement as he pulls away; he still doesn’t like being manipulated. 

 

She responds by pulling him closer, and when she kisses him there’s no trace of tenderness. Her mouth is warm and wet and needy, relentless in its conquest of his own. He finds himself surrendering somewhat, letting her dictate the pace even as his hands drift lower, cupping the ass that was taunting him from the pool table mere minutes ago. Toby’s been getting gradually harder since she stepped in close, and now that the long, slender body that still haunts his dreams is pressed against him once more, there’s no hope of resisting what has to happen next.

 

They’re a bad habit with years of practice behind it. Even in the moments when he wishes he’d never met Andy, Toby finds himself undeniably attracted to her. Emotionally they might be oil and water, but physically they’re gunpowder and a naked flame. 

 

“Dammit,” she says when they break for air, resting her forehead against his. Knowing no response is needed, he decides to kiss her neck instead, teasing and caressing the long lines of her throat. She moans softly, the sound vibrating against his lips, and steers him in slow and faltering steps until she’s backed against the pool table with its remnants of an unfinished game.

 

Toby doesn’t need direction by now, letting his fingers undo the white shirt that clings to her so nicely. Andy’s tugging at his belt by the time he unbuttons her jeans, and Toby is delighted to discover that she still has a fondness for ivory satin that always calls her wedding dress to mind. He casts a nervous glance at the door (locked, she’s not an idiot) because she’s still a United States Congresswoman and he might be worth a column inch or two for notoriety alone. 

 

She kicks her jeans and underwear aside, letting Toby drink in the sight of those legs that don’t quit. He pulls out his wallet and the attendant condom, feeling younger and more awkward than he has in quite some time. It’s easier than asking questions, of dragging in the specter of other people, of time spent apart. 

 

He can’t last long without touching her though, pulling her back against him as she shoves his pants down without ceremony. Andy is the one to rip the foil with her teeth, before rolling the latex on with nonchalance that doesn’t match up to her flushed chest and heavy breathing. Determined to best her at her own game, Toby turns her in his arms and pulls her shirt off to join the growing pile on the floor. He eases her bra straps down, following their progress with kisses and nips that briefly mark her pale skin. (Alabaster he thinks, because there’s never a time when his brain stops shooting for an 800 on a long-since passed verbal SAT).

 

Her bra undone, Toby savors the weight of Andy’s breasts in his palms, trying desperately not to think of all the times he’d been convinced this chance would never come; miserable, heartbroken and trying to deny he was any such thing. It seems impossible in the heat of moments like these, that either of them could ever be fool enough to try and live without this.

 

She’s grinding back against him now, urging him on--past foreplay--and Toby’s only too happy to comply. He grips firmly on her hip and guides his dick towards a shock of wetness that envelops him with the gradual push of his hips. His brain is already short-circuiting at the overload of sensation, at the unmistakable feeling of _home_.

 

“Oh, Andrea,” he murmurs against the back of her neck, his face buried in the chaotic tresses of her hair as they splay across her back, fiery in the soft light of the room. She’s bracing herself with an iron grip on the edge of the table, meeting his thrusts with stronger ones of her own. He picks up the pace in response, pounding harder until they’re both sweating and Andy’s cursing in some unsteady rhythm that’s like music to his ears. He’s gripping hard enough to bruise now, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like the thought of marking her as his one more time, leaving some trace in the morning when this will no doubt be consigned to the realm of bad ideas all over again.

 

But right now he’s close, so fucking close to coming, and he knows it’s going to blow his mind. The tension has his whole body taut, ridiculous there in just an open shirt while Andy rides him in nothing but an undone bra. It’s like when they first met all over again - grabbing time (and each other) at every rare opportunity, fucking in closets and bathrooms and cars whenever the need arose. 

 

He lets one hand wander to her clit, knowing she’s close by how she clenches around him, and sure enough it’s just a few more strokes until she jerks with a muffled cry and falls slowly forward on the table, raking the green felt with her nails. That’s all it takes for Toby, there’s a familiar flash of blinding white and dazzling color as he comes with a shout that hurts his throat, before collapsing as carefully as he can on top of her.

 

A minute or two later they begin the uncomfortable process of extricating themselves from one another, and Toby feels one or two twinges that say there’ll be hell to pay come morning. It will have been worth it, at least, and from the way that Andy’s gingerly retrieving her clothes, he’s not the only one feeling it. 

 

“So,” he challenges when they’re both more or less presentable again. “Was that our final fling before you seek executive office?”

 

She watches him for a moment, sucking on her bottom lip which says she’s feeling more than thinking right now. There are a hundred snappy comebacks to a line like that, but Andy looks tired for the first time all night.

 

“Come home with me?” It’s a simple request, for anyone else but them. It means unscheduled time with the kids before their bedtime, and maybe he even has a shot at a second round with Andy. But most of all, he likes the thought of just crawling into bed with her, and having her still be there in the morning. Those are the things he misses most, because sex and an argument about the Middle East are available from plenty of different sources, but there’s only one person he’s ever felt safe enough to sleep soundly beside.

 

“Okay.”


End file.
